The Temp

by Michelle Frances

  ‘I’ll get you some thoughts in the next few days,’ said Adrian.

  ‘That would be great,’ said Liz, smiling. ‘’Cos I’m seeing Luke soon and it would be good to have something to talk over with him. Now, it’s freezing out here. Anyone for a coffee?’

  She headed off towards the studios and Adrian glowered at her back as she went. The malevolent look on his face took Carrie by surprise. She saw him quickly readjust his expression when he saw her and then she watched as he followed Liz.

  She shivered. It wasn’t just anger she’d seen in Adrian’s eyes; it was fear too.

  FIFTY-SIX

  Tuesday 6 February

  The mobile started to turn, the farmyard of tiny stuffed animals gently dancing to Brahms’s ‘Lullaby’ above Rory’s enraptured face. Carrie switched off the lamp and softly closed the door, crossing her fingers. It was her nightly superstitious ritual, complete with a plea to the gods that he would drop off. If she was honest with herself, it had become easier of late: Rory did seem to have learned how to fall asleep.

  She crept down the two flights of stairs and stood in the empty kitchen. She could see a crack of light under the door of the office. Adrian must be in there working. She wondered if he was concentrating on ideas for the next show. The next show. Even if everything went to plan (unheard of in the obstacle-strewn world of television development), the absolute earliest they’d be filming was two years’ time. Where would they all be in two years?

  Carrie wondered about making something for dinner but wasn’t particularly hungry. She looked in the fridge; there was a bag of carrots nestled in the salad drawer and a bunch of only slightly wilted coriander. Maybe she could rustle up some soup.

  She went over to the office door and raised her hand. Gently tapped on the wood. It was a moment before Adrian answered, and in that moment she imagined his frustration at being disturbed.

  ‘Yep?’ he called.

  She opened the door. He was sitting at his desk, computer switched on. As the door swung open, the draught stirred the noose rope, as it always did, and as she always did, she wished he’d move it. She didn’t like it swinging macabrely on the wall like that.

  ‘I was thinking of making some carrot soup,’ she said.

  He looked round. ‘Sounds great. Thanks.’

  Carrie glanced at the computer screen. She couldn’t read it from where she was standing, but she saw some dark lines of text. ‘Working on some new ideas?’

  He threw his arms up in a faux-nonchalant flourish. ‘Yeah, just jotting a few things down, you know.’

  She did know. It meant he was stuck – that the ideas weren’t flowing. Ordinarily, this would be her cue to park herself on the sofa, bounce some ideas around with him. But she wasn’t sure anymore. Two years . . . Would they still be together in two years?

  ‘You want to chat?’ she asked cautiously.

  She could see he knew what she was getting at. Their professional and personal lives were so intrinsically entwined and there was a gaping hole in one of them. Although Adrian’s night with Emma had hurt her badly – and still did – deep down Carrie knew this wasn’t the problem. Emma had just been a symptom of the problem. She looked at the man in front of her, whom she still loved in so many ways, and felt as if she was looking at her past. Before Rory.

  He looked at her. ‘I don’t know,’ he said gently. ‘Do you?’

  Tears threatened to overwhelm her, something she couldn’t deal with right now. She plumped up the cushions and sat down on the sofa. ‘Why don’t we talk about the ideas instead?’ she said, with a forced brightness, indicating his computer.

  He glanced back at the screen. ‘Er . . . well, I’m still at the very early stage. Trying to nail the concept. I’ve been looking at politicians . . . after all that stuff in the news recently – what’s-his-face’s fall from grace. Having to move out of the family pile and sell the heirlooms . . .’ He trailed off and she suddenly felt embarrassed for him. It was essentially the same idea as Leon, just in a different setting. Certainly nowhere near innovative enough to get a commissioner excited.

  It was now or never, she suddenly thought. She had to know. ‘Adrian, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.’

  He looked wary. ‘Oh yeah?’

  Her nerves were making her stomach flip over, but she carried on. ‘I had a letter. From Emma.’ She saw him flinch. ‘She claims that she sent you a TV project several years ago asking for some advice and that you took that project and made it yours. She said it was called Generation Rebel.’

  He said nothing; his jaw was locked in anger, his hands linked across his chest as he stared out of the window.

  Carrie waited, but still he said nothing. ‘Is it true?’ she asked tentatively.

  He swung his chair round then, to face her. ‘What do you think?’ he snapped.

  ‘Well, I don’t know—’

  ‘You’d really believe some fantasist over your own husband?’

  A husband who’s already lied to you, said the devil in her ear. ‘I just wanted to hear what you had to say.’

  ‘She’s looking for revenge. She wants to discredit me, blacken my name, because she got fired.’

  Carrie nodded. ‘I can see that, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’ he challenged.

  ‘You still haven’t answered the question.’

  Briefly, she saw a flicker of fear in his eyes. And suddenly she knew what he was frightened of. Not that he’d been caught out but that he wasn’t the writer the world believed him to be. He was afraid he couldn’t deliver. She was closer to his screen now and he saw her glance up at it. There was nothing really on there. A few half-finished sentences.

  Her eyes went back to his and she saw he knew she understood. She knew his weakness, his secret: without Emma, or Elaine, or herself, he was unable to function.

  ‘Why?’ she implored him, not just for the act of the theft itself but for everything it had brought with it. Emma’s determination to work with him, to find the proof, everything that had upended their lives.

  ‘Don’t you start acting as if you’re an innocent party here,’ he lashed out.

  She recoiled, not understanding. ‘What?’

  ‘You sit there and dare to judge me for getting the job done, for getting work, but you forget you’ve benefited just as much as me.’

  ‘I haven’t . . .’ she began to protest.

  ‘You enjoy the beach house, don’t you?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And what about Leon? Do you really think that would’ve been commissioned without the success of Generation Rebel? Your career has done very well, thank you, now you’re hanging on to my coat-tails, so don’t start judging me when you’ve been very happy to go along for the ride when it suited you.’

  Carrie’s mouth was open with hurt and bewilderment. Unable to speak, she closed it, forced herself to stand, despite feeling as though she’d been punched in the gut. She caught a glimpse of regret on Adrian’s face but needed to get out of there. As she left the room, pulling the door shut, she heard the draught send the noose swaying back and forth across the wall.

  Later, in the solitary early hours of the morning, just after she’d fed Rory and put him down again, she lay in bed with a strange sensation that took her a while to put her finger on. When she did, it heralded a small glow, a chink of light that was brighter for the long time it had been in coming.

  Relief. That was what she felt. The lightness of relief. She had been wrong all along. Emma hadn’t wanted her career, or the kudos of working with her husband. She hadn’t even wanted to steal him from her. She’d just wanted to get at the truth and she, Carrie, had been collateral damage. Emma wasn’t some monster who wanted to take over her life. She had no interest in her life! Carrie almost laughed then, at how completely she’d got it wrong, at the ordinariness of it all. Carrie was no one to Emma, nothing. She stretched out with a sense of pure joy. It was such a wonderful sensation. She was free. She was f
ree!

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Friday 23 February

  Despite it being the hardest thing to do, every morning Emma made sure she was out of bed and down in the kitchen fully dressed making breakfast. She always put the kettle on and poured the water on two teabags in two mugs so there was one for Lucy. Two slices of toast popped out of the toaster and she automatically buttered them and knew she would eat them or at least one in this whole pretence that everything was normal. Behind her, Lucy wittered on as she made some quinoa thing in Tupperware for her lunch, quinoa and kale being the latest nutritional combination that she was convinced would help her shift the extra few pounds she was carrying.

  Lucy suddenly held her phone up in front of Emma’s face. ‘Oh my God, look – it’s your actress. You know, the one playing the Hollywood ex-girlfriend. She’s coming out of some nightclub.’ Lucy peered closer. ‘God, she looks amazing considering it’s three in the morning and she’s no doubt drunk several gallons of wine.’ She sounded peeved, as if the actress had no right to be so beautiful and have a good time.

  ‘Champagne,’ said Emma.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Anna-Maria.’ She pointed at Lucy’s phone. ‘She likes champagne. Taittinger.’

  ‘Seriously? That’s all she drinks on a night out?’

  Emma shrugged. ‘So she says.’

  Lucy stared enviously at the phone. ‘Nice life. Hey, she’s tweeted a message: “Loving working with the guys on Leon – awesome show. Was in a hot-air balloon today!!!!!”’ She looked up. ‘She was in a hot-air balloon? Flying over London?’

  ‘In the studios probably,’ corrected Emma.

  ‘What do you mean, probably? Don’t you know?’

  Emma inwardly cursed her slip-up. ‘Yeah, course. It was shot against a green screen. The background will go in after – special effects.’

  Lucy’s eyes were agog with wonder. ‘Wow. Did you . . . ? I mean, is there any chance . . . ? I’d still love to visit the set. I wouldn’t get in the way. Just, you know, blend invisibly into the background. Only talk to the actors at lunch.’

  Emma looked up sharply.

  ‘Joke,’ said Lucy, wounded, although Emma knew she would seize the chance to speak to them or ask for an autograph if the opportunity arose. Which, of course, it never would, as she didn’t work there anymore.

  ‘So what do you think?’ prompted Lucy.

  Emma swallowed her mouthful of toast, which seemed to refuse to go down. ‘I’ll check in again. See what the schedule’s like over the next couple of weeks.’

  Lucy brightened. ‘Thanks. Today?’

  ‘Today what?’

  ‘Can you check today?’

  ‘No,’ said Emma, a little too quickly. ‘I’m working from home,’ she explained.

  Lucy sniffed. ‘Again?’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No. Just seems you’re hardly ever there. At the studios . . .’ Lucy trailed off, waiting for an explanation, but Emma was damned if she would give her one.

  She was fed up with her constant needling about visiting the set. She could do without it. There was enough on her plate already. She was barely sleeping and had lost weight, something that Lucy had also made the odd remark about. ‘You don’t want to get too skinny or you’ll fade away,’ she’d said, while pointedly staring at her waistline the other day, when Emma, unable to stomach her dinner, had scraped most of it in the bin. She hadn’t replied as she didn’t want to get into any sort of debate, but instead had gone to her room, where she’d done what she always seemed to do now: think about Elaine.

  She’d wrongly accused her. Screamed at her. She had blood on her hands because of Adrian and his false accusation. There wasn’t a day when the nightmare image didn’t come to the forefront of her mind again and again: Elaine’s terrified face as she realized she was dying.

  Emma looked at the rest of her toast, her appetite non-existent.

  ‘Rent’s due tomorrow,’ said Lucy, and Emma looked up. ‘Just saying,’ shrugged Lucy.

  ‘I know the rent is due,’ said Emma sharply. ‘You don’t need to remind me.’ In fact, it was another thing adding to her misery. There was still no promise of work on the horizon. She suddenly felt as if she were suffocating. She threw the remaining toast in the bin and grabbed her coat and bag.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Lucy, taken aback.

  ‘Think I will go to the studios after all,’ said Emma pointedly. ‘I could do with a change of scene.’

  Lucy looked put out and a little sheepish – no doubt regretting her words in case they’d jeopardized her set visit, but Emma was already through the front door.

  The cold, biting air nipped at her cheeks as she strode furiously down the road. Who did Lucy think she was, nagging at her, constantly going on with her little jibes and comments? Emma couldn’t stand it. This new place wasn’t home – it was somewhere to rest her head – and she felt as if she never wanted to go back. Everything was lost, and the world was conspiring against her. And Lucy wouldn’t shut up. Emma marched angrily on, feeling in a dangerous mood.

  Christ, it was cold. In her hurry to get out of the house, she’d left her gloves behind and her hands were numb. She stuffed them in her coat pockets and marched on further, fuelled by a burning desperation. Flakes of snow started to drift down from the sky, little pieces of floating softness, soundless but filling the air like some sort of alien invasion. Emma stopped, looked around in dismay. She stretched out her arm and watched as the white flakes landed on her coat, staying there for a few seconds before disappearing. The snow was getting heavier. She hunched her shoulders and headed towards a parade of shops nearby that she knew included a cafe.

  Once inside, she ordered herself a coffee and took it to the till to pay. Digging around in her handbag, she was mortified when she couldn’t find her purse. Oh God, she thought, don’t tell me I’ve gone and left it at the flat. Throwing an apologetic look to the European guy on the till, she took her bag off her shoulder and searched frenetically, plucking things out and shoving them on the counter. Then just as she thought she was going to have to hand the coffee back, to her relief she saw her purse had fallen into a small pocket inside the lining of her bag. She pulled it out and was about to pay when something else caught her eye.

  A single Yale key, glinting at her from the creases in the pocket seams. She fished it out. It was cold in her fingers.

  ‘Are you ready to pay, miss?’ said the man on the till.

  She quickly handed over the cash and then went to a table. She placed the key down in front of her and an idea began to form.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Friday 23 February

  Carrie pushed the pram along the streets, buoyant after her session at baby swimming with Rory. She loved seeing him in the water, reaching out for her with his fat little arms. In fact, everything seemed more enjoyable. It was as if a weight had lifted now she knew she wasn’t in Emma’s firing line.

  It was cold and she picked up her speed as she was running late for Rory’s lunch. If he wasn’t fed at bang on noon, he’d start wailing, and it was too cold to sit on a bench and pull out a bottle of milk.

  As she turned into her road, snow started to fall and she stopped, full of delight. Then she glanced down at the pram and weighed it up. If she was quick . . . She got Rory out and held him in her arms.

  ‘Look, Rory, snow!’ she said, pointing. He gazed at the falling white flakes, puzzled, and she laughed. Then he waved an arm about, trying to touch some. She caught a flake on the fingertip of her glove and showed it to him; his soft, downy eyebrows dimpled and rose as it disappeared. She smiled. Another first. So many and she wished she had someone to share them with. Mum would’ve loved this moment, she thought, and looked up at the sky. Instead of a celestial being, she saw billions of tiny flakes cascading down. They got in her eyes and she blinked, and then Rory started to grizzle. She pushed her thick coat sleeve back with her clumsy glove-clad hand – it was three minute
s to twelve!

  Quickly she tucked him back in and hurried home. The house was empty when she walked in, something she already knew. Adrian had gone to the Soho office to work on the new idea. She had a suspicion it wasn’t going too well, but following their argument about his stealing Emma’s idea, they had stopped talking to each other about anything meaningful. It was funny, she thought, as she heated up a bottle of milk, those fraud police she’d always been afraid of: ironic how she was the one who’d had the least to fear.

  Carrie got the milk into Rory’s hungry mouth just before the all-out meltdown and sat back in the chair with him on her lap.

  She’d thought a lot about Emma’s letter since Adrian had admitted what he’d done, and actually felt a little sorry for her. It was stupid, naive of her to have written to him in the first place – you never sent your ideas out to anyone, especially not a total stranger, unless you went through an agent. Emma had put herself in a vulnerable position, but still, Carrie didn’t like the notion her husband had taken advantage. She wondered if Emma was planning on doing anything else to make the truth public, but knew deep down that even if Emma cried foul play, no one would genuinely challenge Adrian, the successful writer, for fear of losing a chance to work with him.

  She’d seen it again and again, A-list writers who’d created shows the nation adored, bringing riches and kudos to themselves and the channel. When there were hints they’d lost their mojo and relied on drink or drugs or both to keep them functioning, or when they’d become egotistical monsters to work with, nobody dared criticize them or point out their failings. There might be a whisper or a raised eyebrow between friends, but nothing public. Ever. They were safe as long as they were still riding the crest of their last success and didn’t fail with anything new, exposing their weakness. It was an industry that favoured the powerful, and anyone who tried to disrupt that order got chewed up and laughed out of town. If Emma were to speak up, it would do nothing but embarrass her and ruin any chance she had of getting a foot on the slippery ladder. Nobody liked trouble in this business; they steered clear of it like a bad smell.